Sparks of pleasure

I haven’t seen Tamara for nearly an hour, but then, I haven’t been looking for her. Her boyfriend — or, more precisely, the man whom she has been with lately, and who she wishes would be her boyfriend — has left the party early, and alone. I noticed she didn’t leave with him. I think she must be in the back of the house somewhere. She almost always seeks some soft place to lie down when she’s high.

The rest of us, the last hangers-on, talk into the night, the way you do in an altered state of consciousness. Most of the other guests have left, only the friends remain. The music is off now, and the laughter quiet, the way old friends laugh together in the silence of a cool September night. Matt is another year older, and the actual chronological fact of the birthday is about to pass when I realize I have to take Jeanne home.

Jeanne is my girlfriend. I have to take her home because her curfew is midnight. I’m not going to tell you her age. I will tell you that loving her I’m breaking no laws in my state, at least no serious ones. I’ve looked it up, so I know. At least a part of me is cautious.

She looks sleepy, and I rouse her. She’s tired because it’s Friday and she’s worked hard, several hours overtime at a local supermarket. Checkout girl. That’s where I met her, or she met me. Her eyes kept inviting me to ask, and eventually I did. She looks older than she is, with her athletic figure, smooth skin, and swirl of sometimes unruly blonde hair. A face a little wider than some with her trim build, but redeemed by the smile so often found on her sensual lips.

She seems to be glad to be going home, or at least, maybe glad to be leaving. All of my friends are years older than her, and so it’s a bit of a strain to fit in, although she does a brave job of it. We drive home in silence, she sitting next to me on the seat, head on my shoulder. Her house is dark when we arrive. I expect to take her to the porch and kiss her good night, but instead we make out in the car. I confess my mind isn’t on her, not entirely. Even tired, her agile tongue curls actively in my mouth, and even kissing back I think of Susie.

Susie, and Betty. But I’m not going to go into those details here — that’s another story. All I can say is that I left Susie’s arms very, very late last night to drive the hour and a half home for Matt’s party. Susie and Betty had promised to come — in fact, to bring their Wesson oil (they had said, with a wink; I had thought it was probably a joke, but hoped not). But they did not come. There was no Wesson oil at this party. It was a disappointment to me, as I had high hopes for an interesting time in the span of darkness before the next dawn. When you’re young, time and sleep seem nothing, nothing.

“Mom’s asleep,” Jeanne whispers softly in my ear. I wonder why no lights are on in the house. I wonder how she knows. Only the yellow bug-light on the front porch. Jeanne has a key.

I feel a hand between my legs. Probing, touching, feeling there. We’ve done this before, but never here, right in the driveway. It’s daring at best, more like foolhardy. Fortunately, we are young, and therefore invulnerable.

Her tiredness seems to have evaporated like mist under the blazing sun. Our tongues dance together in a familiar pattern. Her hand also feels nice, her touches more direct, more ardent. I feel myself stir. She doesn’t know how overworked I’ve been in that department lately. It’s difficult to get fully interested, even now. I can’t help mentally comparing her tongue to Susie’s older, more experienced technique. But it’s nice, very nice.

Somehow, we squiggle and squirm our way to the passenger side, away from the steering wheel. I suppose it’s easy and nearly automatic because we’ve done it so often. We’re used to loving one another in this brittle, windowed, steel and glass cage. I have a room of my own, as Matt and I are house mates. But Matt’s girlfriend Janet (also an old friend of mine) is often there, and Jeanne won’t make love in my room when anyone else is in the house. The walls are very thin because it’s quite an old house, pretty far out in the country.

When I get to the passenger seat, she swings her leg over me and straddles my loins. We are, of course, still fully clothed. But our mouths solder together for a little while, and the feel of her against me, the clean, bright scent of her, the touch of her thighs on mine, rouse a bit more of my desire. Outside, it’s brightly moonlit. I can see most everything clearly, now with the car lights off and my eyes adjusted to the dark. She breaks our kiss, and leans back slightly. I can see the wetness on her swollen lips.

She watching me, I watching her, we lock eyes. Below, I can feel motion. I know what’s she’s doing, and why. She’s unbuttoning the top button of her shorts, which takes a moment of fumbling, and then the sound of the zipper.

Access.

We kiss again, our soaked lips pressing, sucking, our tongues again probing, thrusting and parrying, lighting wet sparks of desire that travel down our bodies. My hand does not hesitate, but moves swiftly to the dark V of her open zipper. The fingers find her navel, circle around it, and dip downwards, to the elastic ring of her panties. Her legs widen a trifle more, not because they need to, but just in welcome.

Past the elastic, stretching it outward. Through the fleecy cornsilk of her hair, where not to my surprise I find wetness, slick hot honey matting the bottom of the inverted triangle. Heat. My fingertips probe further down, finding not the narrow band of the valley between the open thighs and the ridges of hair, but seemingly a wide open plain of warm velvet flesh, spread open in verdant welcome to its bony, agile invaders.

Oh, the mystery of women! Only a few minutes ago she’d seemed so tired, so uninterested. I was sure when we pulled up I’d just escort her to the door and kiss her good night. Now she’s hot, open, flowing like a river. As soon as I touch her sensitive labia, she thrusts her tongue in my mouth as deep as it will go.

I explore. I’m not in a foreign country, though. I ought to be familiar with the territory, I’ve been here often enough. But it’s always new, like the ocean (in more ways than one). I love the complex geography of that tiny area between a woman’s legs. My fingertips find the borders of the valley, moving around them, pressing and smoothing the outer lips. She is incredibly soaked. I can feel the hairs bundled and glued together in staves.

Inward, slowly, slowly — I seek the source of this Nile. The smoothness of the borderlands gives way gradually to a series of ridges and folds, all swimmingly flooded too. I’m concentrating on my fingers, and let my tongue go idle. She takes up that cause in earnest, seeming to make up for my lack of effort. But as I find each tiny wrinkle of her inner lips, and caress it with the ball of my fingertip, the tongue in my mouth slows down. As I find the yielding mouth of the volcano, and snake inside so gently, her swirling stops, and her lips seem almost to rest against mine, barely touching. I can feel her breath begin to cool the saliva on my lips. Her breathing is starting to get just a little uneven.

Inside. Inside. Deep, and up, where I feel reservoirs of honey as yet unreleased, which with my touch give way, and a warm flood seems to run down my knuckles. I press against the slick, satin walls, feeling the marvelous hidden structures behind them. Her body seems to tighten just a bit, and then relax as a sigh, a small, quivery, girlish little sigh escapes her. Her lips leave mine, and she rests her face on my shoulder, wet lips now almost touching the V where my shoulder meets my neck. I can feel her thick blonde hair slightly tickling my cheek and neck. From below, the warm musky scent of sex envelops us.

Visibility. Past a few wisps of curling blonde hair, I can see the house, little yellow bug light shining on the porch, all other windows dark, standing about forty yards away in the bright full moonlight. It’s important to keep watch for a light coming on, a door opening. I’m glad I can see. But everything is quiet, except the crickets chirping their myriad, desperate love songs into the late September night.

As I watch, down below my fingers probe, circle, rub, and finally withdraw a reluctant retreat from the tunnel. Out, and up, slowly, northward in the valley and towards the little mound that lies in these parts, embedded there like a small hard marble in a velvet pouch. I find it easily, of course, but touch it slowly, cautiously. Her body tightens against mine as I do. I’m not sure how to read that sign…is it too sensitive? I decide on caution, and work my way around it, touching and feeling, but not directly. Her head lolls about, shaking slowly against me as if saying no, but it is not no that she says, but “yes,” breathily against my sweaty neck. Exactly her third word since we left the party, I think.

I move across the marble, horizontally. She sighs again, a little moan, and her arms tighten their grip on my shoulders. That sounds like a green light to me. I begin a slow, rhythmic motion, back and forth, up and down, in a regular beat, fingertip gentle across the slick hard nub. I can feel the reaction, and it’s not subtle: she tightens, trembles, sighs. It’s like a earthquake, building inside her. I keep my eyes on the porch, and give her no mercy. Strumming, slowly, then a bit faster. We haven’t got all night, after all.

I think of Susie. Her valley, her landscape, her trembles, her sighs. The way she kisses, hard, lustful, insistent. The way she heaves up her loins to me when she comes. All different, and wonderfully different, and yet similar. Such wonderful mysteries, such incredible discoveries; those already found, but those waiting to be uncovered even sweeter.

Still, it’s hard not to feel a twinge of guilt. Jeanne knows nothing of Susie. She’s missed me so, when I’ve been out of town every week for a month now. It’s all very confusing. I am quite fond of her, but I could have never said I loved her, and I never have. I’m going to have to tell her sometime; but it’s hard, it’s hard. I don’t want to hurt her.

Suddenly, lights dance about the car. I look around in a momentary panic, then relax. It’s only a car on the road outside, driving past. The sound comes slowly, then recedes fast. Doppler effect.

Jeanne hasn’t noticed. In a different world entirely, her trust is in me, and only me, now. I can feel her body tense, tense. She holds me tight, her breath now coming in ragged bursts. She does not moan, but I can feel a tremble run through her, then quiet, quiet; and then a heave that takes me by surprise, a gasp and exhalation of air, almost violent. She groans into my ear, the voice quivering in the way only extreme feelings can make, then relaxes and falls silent again, except for a somewhat noisy effort to regain control of her lungs. My fingers stop their motion, knowing that to touch her now might even hurt.

My hand, a bit cramped now from the narrow angle, gives her whole vulva one last affectionate cup, gently, and withdraws.

As her breathing slows, she touches her lips to my neck, and ever so gently kisses me there. Then slowly, languidly, she plants little kisses on my neck, cheeks, lips, nose. She does it so lovingly, it hurts me.

Recovering slowly, she leans back, looking at my face in the moonlight. “Thank you,” she says softly, sincerely. She always thanks me. She’s so courteous. Her hand finds it’s way again to the intersection of my legs, and feels the hardness — yes, hardness — there.

“Your turn now,” her voice smiles.

She feels me, tracing the outline through my pants. I’m hard, and a bit aroused, but not as much as you’d expect. This last week has been anything but a drought for me, sexually, but she does not know that. Once, these bouts in the car, or somewhere else we’d stolen for a hour or two, were thrilling, satisfying. But that was before I’d gone on that business trip; that long, tough software installation. Before I’d moved in, during the week, with my old friend Betty. Before she’d introduced me to Susie. A time when the only threesome I’d known was that between myself, my imagination, and my right hand. A time before the exotic had made the ordinary seem, well, ordinary.

“It’s late,” I whisper. “You might better go in now. Your mom’ll be worried. We can take a rain check on it, and you can have me soon when you’re not so far past your curfew.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. This is not a situation we’ve been in before. I don’t usually decline such generous offers.

“It’s OK,” I reply. We kiss, gently, then she unstraddles me and sits back, arranging her clothing, zipping the zipper, buttoning the button, sharing her head to rearrange her hair. We kiss again, and she slips out the passenger side, the noise of the car door seeming loud in the quiet night air, those crickets not as lucky as us still calling for some action. I watch her trim, sexy, athletic body move gracefully to the house, and up the stairs. At the top, under the yellow light, she turns, smiles, waves. I start the car after the door closes, and begin the ten minute journey back.

(I don’t know it yet, but I sense it. Sometime soon, there will be a time when I drop her off and don’t kiss her automatically. “No kiss?” she will ask, perplexed. Sometime soon, there will be a weekend when I don’t call, or come by. Sometime soon, we’ll be standing in this driveway on an October afternoon, my hands in hers, and she will ask with red-rimmed eyes if I still love her. My silence — hurt, hurting for her and me, selfishly — will say all she does not want to hear. She’ll drop my hands, and turn, and walk up those stairs without looking back, without smiling, without waving.)

* * *

Our house is quiet, still, sitting there white in the moonlight, deep in the piney woods. The only light on is the living room. I come in quietly, to find Matt, his girlfriend Janet, brother Bryan, our friend Jerry, and our neighbor (200 yards further down the dirt road) Kathy. They’re in a small circle in the living room, draped casually on the sofa, chairs, wooden floor. Passing a joint, it appears, or only a roach, held in it’s long metal clip, trailing a swirl of gray smoke into the dimly lit room. The detritus of the party all around: beer cans, glasses, plates.

I’m offered, but decline. Just joining them might entail staying up hours more. Kathy, in particular, is infamous for her ability to party till dawn. I can already sense a connection between her and Jerry. Maybe she won’t be staying too long, after all, nor he. Bryan will be sleeping on the couch. Matt and Janet are often impatient, and might soon be abed too, making love in their inimitable style. But still, I don’t join in, but announce tiredly I’m going to hit the sack. No one begs me to stay, but I get a strange vibe. Like something they know, that I don’t. Matt is smiling a trifle strangely. It could be the drugs, who knows?

It’s a small house. There are only six rooms — two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, tiny dining area, and small living room. Built in the late 19th century, probably for a sharecropper family. There are four such houses out here in the woods — the mansion (it is one) that once was the epicenter of this little agricultural empire is further down the road, at the very end. One of the houses is run down, Kathy lives in one, and the family of the man who tends the landscaping and horses of the rich northern lady who now owns this property makes up the other, besides ours. They do have indoor plumbing, as she fixed them up for rental. But no heat, other than a fireplace and electric baseboard heaters that don’t work very well. No insulation at all, just board walls.

My feet creak the floorboards as I walk down the hall to my bedroom. No need for a light — the windows are large, and the full moonlight streams in. I open the door to my bedroom — why is it closed? — and look thankfully towards my single bed. And then I remember.

I am not alone.

There in my bed, only half covered, lies a sleeping girl. Tamara. Her tousled black hair wild around her unusual, but not unattractive face. Her petite, beautifully formed body lying back against the wall, her face out towards the door. Being tiny, maybe a trifle under five feet, she can even make my bed look big enough for two. There’s room for me. What should I do?

I remember. Everyone expected her to go home with Paul. What happened? I knew he had left, and she’d stayed, and that they had come to the party together. A fight? Unlikely: Paul wasn’t the fighting type. At any rate, she has no ride home.

Somehow, the obvious idea of waking her up and asking if she’d like me to drive her home never even crosses my mind. She is, after all, fully clothed, lying there sleeping (or apparently sleeping). But Tamara and I have a slight history. There have been times when she sat closer to me than necessary, or touched me in a certain way. We’ve never been intimate, but I’ve had signals that it might not be unwelcome if it came to pass. But it’s hard to be sure, I’ve certainly gotten signals disastrously wrong before.

It seems natural just to get into bed with her — after all, it is my bed — and see what happens. If she wants to go home, I’ll be happy to take her. If she wants to stay, that’s all right too. If she just wants to sleep with me — that’s all — in my bed, I would have no objection, as long as she didn’t snore, kick, or cling too tight.

I strip. Normally, I always sleep naked, but in this case I decide it might be prudent to slip on some boxers. Quietly, I pull back the covers and nestle in beside her. To see what will happen.

We’re only inches apart, as there is not much room for two in a single bed. Amazingly, she doesn’t open her eyes as I slip in beside her, facing her. She’s only partly covered, and I pull up the blanket to cover my legs, as there’s already a chill in the room. I suspect she isn’t sleeping, but I study her face anyway, in the pale, semi-reflected moonlight. Small, round, almost Asian. There may be some Asian blood there, it’s hard to tell. Short, straight black hair. She looks peaceful, content. Slowly, as there seems to be no reaction from her, I resign myself to just nod off there beside her, a bit uncomfortably, on my side.

That’s when she reveals she’s awake, by reaching her hand up to me and caressing my upturned side. She doesn’t open her eyes, just uses her hand as a blind person would, feeling slowly upwards, almost tickling me but not intending to. Across my chest, and up to my chin, where she detects the beard — the first sure mark of identification. I in turn reach out my hand, and seek skin, but there isn’t much exposed. Only her hands, and her face. Her clothes cover everything else. I choose her upturned cheek, and softly, slowly touch it.

At that, she opens her eyes and studies my face. Her eyes are dark pools, so brown they are almost black, but they reflect some subtle light from the room behind me. It almost feels romantic, for a moment.

But only a moment. Then, in a startling burst of energy, she suddenly scrambles up out of the covers, and climbs across me and out of the bed. I’m stunned. My first thought is I’ve really screwed up now. Assumed too much. Another blunder. Embarrassing.

But then I’m amazed again. She doesn’t head for the door. I turn, and she’s standing there, beside the bed, in the full moon from the window, and pulling off her sweater. It flys up over her head, and back into the darkness, out of the pool of pale blue light. Other garments follow, in what seems to me a blinding flash. Blouse. Pants. Bra. Panties. Socks.

I love to see a woman reveal her body to me for the first time. But I admit, I’ve never had it done so quickly, or so uninterestingly, before or since. A slow strip, or even an ordinary undressing, would have been sexy, but this is far too fast. But it’s a little cold in here, so it’s understandable.

Still, the glimpse I get of the revealed flesh is breathtaking. Perfect curves; young, bouncy, medium-sized breasts with small dark nipples. And the sweetest, most beautiful ass a girl could have. This all flashes by in a second or two, of course, before she jumps (and that is the right word) back on the bed, and on top of me.

She fits herself to my body, pressing every available inch of flesh to mine. She’s extraordinarily hot — literally. Her skin is so warm, I must feel cold to her. Arms go around my neck, her lips seek mine, her nipples are hard enough to feel against my chest. She writhes a bit on me, rubbing skin on skin, as I feel my cock pulsing and filling against her leg. This is all wordless, silent.

Tongue. Another tongue in my mouth, the third, incredibly, in twenty-four hours, after Susie and Jeanne. Tamara’s is small, agile, insistent, and lighting quick. She licks at my lips, probes my own tongue, swirls around inside. At the same time, she places one leg between mine, and arcs her body slightly, so as to bring the top of her pussy into contact with my thigh. I can feel the heat, the wetness there. I raise my own leg between hers, and we press together hard at that point of meeting, her ass wiggling against me, riding my upper thigh. Her hot spot feels almost like it can burn me there.

What is it? The full moon? Some strange karma in the air? Suddenly unexpected women seem ferociously in heat. I’ve been searching, hoping, trying for so many years to have something resembling a sex life — with mixed success. Now, I’m almost passive, and they are coming to me. It’s unexpected, and though pleasurable a little disconcerting too. Like staring out at the ocean for years, never being able to go in it, then suddenly having freedom and plunging in, only to be rolled by the power of the waves.

Tamara and I kiss, grope, twist, and wiggle. Someone pulls my boxers off — it may have been me. Somehow in all this, I wind up on top of her. I feel a surge of lust being released, somewhere. There’s a pause, mainly because she slows down for a few moments. She looks up at me.

“Fuck me,” she says, softly. Then, “fuck me” again, this time with the emphasis on the first word. She says it very distinctly, and clearly. I move to comply, even as I reflect that there are others in the house, and almost certainly they could hear her say that, if not the thrashing that preceded it. But still, what is one to do? By this time, I’ve been heated to the point where I really couldn’t care less. At one time or another, I’ve heard most of them making love. Certainly Matt and Janet, to say nothing of Jerry (which is yet another story).

My tiny lover spreads her legs wide for me. Usually, I’m in favor of a long, slow, sensual buildup. But this feels like an emergency, so I do the appropriate thing. Without hands, I press myself up to her pussy, and probe gently for the softest, most yielding spot. It’s easy to find, and easy to slip inside, and so I do. But oh my! She’s so tight, a wave of pleasure sweeps over me as the head pushes past the outer lips. I pause, briefly, to get control, but she doesn’t want a pause, and pushes up, to get more of me inside her. I take her in my arms and kiss her, to distract her; then press slowly, deliberately, deeper inside. It’s an easy glide; tight, smooth, and easy. She moans into my mouth just as I feel my balls nestle up against her lips. Fully socketed. We both lie there, still, panting in mutual pleasure.

It just feels so good. So indescribable. A feeling of thickness, yes thick, filled, overflowing with a deep-seated lust. Impossible, now, to even stay still inside her for long, so I hold out until the intense feeling subsides a little (for greater control), then pull out, slowly, until the just the head is touching her, then push back in, as slowly as I can, which isn’t very, since every nerve is begging for the friction to heat up.

Soon, we are basically fucking like animals. There’s simply no other honest way to describe it. The bed squeaks and groans. Anyone nearby, even behind the closed door, is getting an earful. We try, somehow, to be quiet with our lungs, but as our heads are together such that my mouth is against her ear, and vice versa, every pant and moan and grunt seems loud. But there’s no stopping us. If the earth opened up right now, we’d probably keep on fucking on the way down.

She’s not shy — she meets me heave for thrust. Her arms wrap around my back, and her legs around my waist. I have a wriggling, trashing, moaning and panting woman attached to me fore and aft. But all I can think of is the feeling on my cock, the friction, the sweet sliding. Again and again. I know I’ll come soon, but don’t care.

Still, she beats me to it. Her squeeze suddenly gets tighter, and her legs unwrap and plant on the bed. An agonized groan escapes her, and I pause briefly, as is my habit, to feel her coming. Susie would heave up right now, and it’s half what I expect; but Tamara belongs to that group which hunches, rather than heaves. And she does — her hips thrust at me in a rapid rhythm, her legs against the bed giving leverage. She throws her head back and holds her breath, and as the hunches stop she seems impossibly stiff for a second, before exhaling in a rush, and relaxing.

She lies underneath me, dazed it seems. I don’t care, and start moving again. The sensation mounts quickly, and there’s no reason to fight it now. I just let it happen — I stiffen, push forward, moan, and feel the pulses as I come up inside her. I seems like a long one, but after only a few seconds of the usual unbelievable ecstasy, I too, dazed, relax on top of her. Our breathing mingles unevenly in the still air.

We lie still, not moving, for some indeterminate time. The fury in abeyance, for a while, anyway. Our breathing returns to normal. Eventually, she speaks.

“Finally. A man who likes sex” she murmurs.

I agree, but don’t say it. I have to wonder if this is a comment on Paul, or simply a way of complimenting me.

Dreamlike, my mind wanders. A furious encounter, this, like nothing I’ve felt before. Hurried, but lusty. Still, all I can think of is the contrast with sweet Susie, her slow, sensuous way of loving. This might be all right for a time or two, but that way of taking your time is more what I like. I wonder if there’s a way I can try and slow Tamara down.

The real mystery to me is, where did this come from, this surge of unstoppable lust, when less than an hour ago I had declined Jeanne without regretting it? The only thing I can think of is the pull of the new over the familiar. Why do I ruminate on these things, even now lying languidly and relaxed on the sexy body of a woman I barely know? Why do I think so much? It’s better, sometimes, to just feel and let life wash over you.

I try and relax and let my mind drift free. But it’s not long until all four hands start to wander, again. I feel an urge to explore this new territory. She must feel something along the same lines, and so it goes. I get up to light a candle, the better to see details by. And eventually, we end up with her widespread, and me between her legs, amazed by the sight. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Every woman really is different, believe me. Her vulva is huge for her small body, and spread wetly open in a range of reddish and vermilion hues. A beautiful flower. But it’s a fleshy cylinder at the top that’s unique to me. Where many seem to peak in the forest of hairs, she has a large protrubence. It’s not her clit, but a tube of red, shining skin that encloses it. About the thickness of my little finger, and half it’s length. I rub it gently, and she sighs. No wonder she could come so easily from just the stimulation provided by our coupling.

I think of Susie. She’s so different in her anatomy there; her clit is tiny, and hidden away. You could never see it, and it’s even difficult to find with tongue or finger. She can’t come just from penetration and friction, no matter how long it lasts, she needs direct stimulation to get over the top. When we make love, my coming inside her is usually sandwiched in between my oral ministrations to her. Seldom has anything made my confidence soar more than being told I was among the very best, even among the women whom she has had there. Now I know I’m good, and mostly it’s because I love it so.

I minister to Tamara. As I do, we both hear a feminine moan through the wall. Janet, my good friend, and Matt, another good friend. I like to think we inspired them. I look up at Tamara as another, louder moan is heard, but she just looks up at me and touches my head and urges me back down to my duty. Soon she is sighing, and wriggling a bit (she’s not a good person at holding still, I’ve noticed). I put my hands on her hips, hold tight, and lick her strongly, figuring since the clit is a bit protected I can be less than totally gentle. She endures this for a while, a short while, and then with an odd keening sound she thrashes the little hunches I felt earlier, but this time against my face.

My beard is now soaked. Soaked in her sexy-musky-sweet honey, almost certainly a bit of mine mixed with it. I don’t care, though, and feel happy and warm as we cuddle together. Once her breathing is normal again, she offers another comment, this one spoken happily, joyfully, and not at all whispered:

“Wasn’t that FUN?”

I agree, and want to cuddle some more. But she’s now seized with a wander lust. That a person who seems so still, normally, can be so active when aroused is interesting. She says she wants some water from the kitchen. I get up, and crack open the door for a look outside. Darkness: guests are gone. Matt and Janet in bed, door closed. No noise from there, right now. I figure I’ll just go in and get her some water, and me too — my throat is a bit dry. But before I can open the door, she’s right beside me. So I take the candle, and hold it up, and naked we creak down the little hallway towards the kitchen. She walks ahead of me, and I can’t help but admire the perfection of her body, firm sexy ass, gorgeous legs, even her back and neck so delicious as she walks slowly in the edge of the circle of reddish light.

We’re in the kitchen, whispering, getting glasses when I remember Bryan (at least) is sleeping in on the couch. If he’s awake (probable) he’s getting a eyeful. But so what? We gulp down some badly needed water, and then she takes the candle from me (dribbling some hot wax on my foot in the process — ouch) and wanders into the little dining area before I whisper to her that someone is sleeping on the couch. “Oooops” she says rather than whispers, “don’t wanna go in there,” and we retreat. She knows she can be seen clearly and fully from the couch, not ten feet away.

Tamara is normally a quiet, sad person, who often doesn’t put much emotion into anything she says. But now she sounds happy, alive, vibrant. We wander back down the hall, and into the bathroom. I hold the candle for her, and she squats and pees, the stream splashing loudly in the total silence of the house. When she’s done, she takes the candle and holds it for me, and I do the same, except standing up of course. She doesn’t react in any way to this, it just seems natural and matter-of-fact to be peeing like this in front of one another. We could turn on a light, but the candle makes it different, adventurous, fun; like the way snow transforms a familiar landscape into a new and exciting one.

Back in the bedroom, she tells me to lie down. I do, and she climbs aboard me, but backwards. Her knees beside my chest. I realize what’s happening as soon as her ass lowers towards my face. No preliminaries, just the direct act of getting into position, and starting to sixty-nine.

Somehow, I think of Susie again. So different. Tamara is direct, she wants sex, and that’s what we do. Just climb on, and start. Susie is so sensual, so indirect, so creative. We can touch, caress, explore, kiss, lick, everything for it seems like hours, driving one another up and up and up until finally one or another takes charge and makes the other explode, then switching roles until both have come. Then resting, talking — slowly, languidly. That’s my style, really. What’s the hurry? Why be so quick, so impatient in search of the orgasm? Make it wait. Enjoy every moment for as long as possible.

Tamara places her pussy on my mouth, and takes my cock in hers. I lick, she licks. I probe inward, she sucks. I fill, becoming hard in her mouth. She gushes against mine. We are, I must admit, a perfect fit. To do a good sixty-nine, the two bodies must fit together nicely, otherwise, uncomfortable contortions are required of one or another partner that detract from the experience. But this girl is exactly right for me in the way of physical compatibility. She can sit on my face and take me in her mouth without bending me back alarmingly.

Pretty soon the feeling mounts in me, but then she suddenly climbs off, quickly, hurriedly. She spins around, clumsily knocking a knee into my shoulder as she does, but paying no attention, not even a hurried apology. She wants me inside her again, and straddles and inserts me without ceremony, and starts immediately to hump up and down. A little time to adjust, to play, to feel myself still inside her would be nice, but she’s too impatient.

I content myself with watching her rise and fall, eyes closed, breasts jiggling up and down, nipples small and pointed and hard. I’ve come too recently to feel any overpowering sensations, so I at least can relax as she grinds her way to another orgasm within a few minutes. Even on top, she stops rising and lowering, and hunches her hips back and forth, then falls down on me chest to chest, and I enjoy the feeling of her hot little body against mine, my cock buried still inside her. Until she revives and requests: “doggy.”

Good God. The word “insatiable” is often misused, so I’m tempted to avoid it here. But we’re getting close, very close to an appropriate time for it. At any rate, I’m certainly not going to turn down a chance to enjoy the spectacular view of her on her knees, that incredible ass raised to me. So we rearrange, and I pause (since I’m in control now) to watch, admire, touch, and caress her sexiest asset before moving up on my knees and letting her hand guide me into her.

We hump again, in a steady rhythm. The bed groans and squeaks, again. She moans, and I feel a rising lusty sexual sensation spreading through me. It may be possible to come again, I think. But it’s very nice just getting there, so I keep my eyes open, watching the action like the camera in a porno movie, inhaling the hot, musky aroma rising from our friction right up to my nostrils.

Then, she comes again; grabbing the sheets in a ball and wiggling her ass as I hold still and let it happen. I hear a muffled cry and realize she’s biting the bed. After she stills, I hold her against me tight, moving ever so gently inside her. But she pulls away, and falls down. This is it, I think, and I’m in between wanting to come, and wanting to sleep. I could accept either, as I crawl up beside her on the small bed. Her chest is still heaving a bit, but it gradually quiets. She opens her eyes, and looks at my face, a dreamy look on hers. But her hand moves to me, and finds my cock still hard, and caresses it. That decides it: I want to come, and then sleep.

I signal this by moving my hips as she masturbates me. I doesn’t matter to me how I come, as long as it happens. Hand, mouth is fine. I can understand if her pussy is too sore. But no: she rolls to her back, spreads her legs. Wordlessly, I mount her, and insert. She welcomes me with hands on my hips, urging me in, and soon we are fully locked together, yet again.

What time can it be? I think hazily as I start to make the abused bed squeak, yet again. I’m into it, but not close to coming. We rock steadily for a while, almost soundlessly except for the bedsprings. The sensation starts to mount again, and I’m enjoying it deliciously as she starts to heave and wriggle beneath me. My elbows are on either side of her head, and her legs are up high, thighs against my sides, bare feet in the air behind me I’m sure.

Her head starts to shift slowly from side to side, lips touching each arm in turn, her eyes closed. I watch her face as we hump, and as she turns to the left side, her mouth opens and she bites into the skin on the inside of my upper arm. I can actually see her teeth take the skin and pull on it. It hurts wickedly, a sudden sharp pain. I jerk my arm away. But it doesn’t hurt enough to deter me from my goal, and I start to fuck her more fiercely, while keeping both arms away from her mouth. She fucks back at me, and for a moment I can feel our pubic areas meeting forcefully. It’s not my style, not my style at all, but I do come in a great thundering seizure, the power of it sending the room reeling around my head. Somewhere below I feel a violently writhing body.

…I awaken, it seems, slumped over her, still inside her. Our bodies are slick with mutual sweat. Somewhere in the muddle of glowing sensations, I can feel the small sting of the bite on my inner arm. But I don’t care, and just lay there, exhausted in every possible way, until I doze off.

But not for long. As soon as the sun begins to lighten the eastern sky, she’s up, working her way out from under me, waking me.

“I have to go now,” she says.

Dazedly, sleepily, we both pull on our clothes. She needs me to take her home. As we get into the car, I realize I don’t know where she lives, and ask for directions.

“Take me to Paul’s apartment,” she says, matter of factly.

Yes, I’m stunned, and ask her if she’s sure. Yes, she is, and determined in her voice. I drive her there, and we speak not a word. Not one.

Paul lives on the second floor. She gets out of the car, says goodbye, and in the early dawn light walks up the stairs, turning once and only once to look at me.

Susie would not leave me like this. She would never use me like this.

(I can’t imagine, even when I try, what happens between them this morning. I only dimly sense that I will almost never see her again, and then only once, in the arms of another man (a stranger) outside a Hallmark store. She will see me then, and give me a little smile in such a way that he does not see it. She will never return any of the calls I will make to her. Paul never speaks of her again, and I do not ask.)

* * *

A waning half-moon, swimming under Jupiter in a bright clear October night, maybe an hour after midnight.

Two identical glasses of white wine, posed on the tiny crate that pretends it’s a table, on Susie’s porch. The two of us, our nakedness bundled in two of her robes against the chill of the night. Talking, relaxing, watching God’s casually spectacular display of thousands of alien suns sparkling in the crisp, dark, silent night air.

The bruise from the bite on my arm is still there, but no longer hurts like it did for days afterwards.

Even the crickets and creek frogs are tired and quiet, it seems. We’ve discussed some cosmic things, and now the conversation gradually drifts to something closer to home for us: orgasms.

How they feel, and how impossible it is to describe it. The best ones we remember, and how few we actually can recall individually of the many, many we have enjoyed, both together and with other lovers and friends, and of course, alone. Then about faking it, and how both women and men can do this, and sometimes do. She admits she used to, feeling inadequate because she just couldn’t get there with a man inside her, but they almost all seem to expect it, their manhood tied ridiculously to the power of their hard cocks to produce a spasm in a woman. I amuse her by telling of the times I’ve faked it. She really didn’t know men could, or would. She also thinks men’s orgasms all feel the same, every time. But like women, we (or at least I) have larger, or smaller ones, in many varieties. True, we always ejaculate, but that doesn’t mean the feeling is always the same.

We discuss what makes a better one. Mostly, it’s the buildup, not hurrying, charging up a head of steam before letting it blow. But not always, I have to admit. There have been times when after hours of exquisite foreplay the actual orgasm was not as spectacular as some others that were induced quickly. She agrees, that it’s only partially under our control, and fortunately even the lesser ones are simply wonderful.

The turn in the conversation towards sexual themes means an impending resumption of activity, you can be sure. Verbal foreplay is a neglected art. But she offers something new, as usual.

“Betty says if she puts her finger in the right place, she can feel me come.”

“Really?” I am intrigued. Feeling a woman come is one of my quests. I mean, feeling something that can’t be simulated. Heaves, hunches, trembles, tightening of vaginal muscles — all are typical. But that’s not what Susie means, I suspect.

“I’ll show you,” she offers, and we retreat inside, leaving the moon to its own devices. Robes discarded, she takes up a position in one of her stuffed chairs, legs draped over the arms. I take up a sitting position on the floor in front of her. She’s spread wide, but only beginning to be aroused. Her vertical smile is but a narrow strip of dark red in the valley.

I could arouse her fully with a few licks, but I take it as a challenge to open her flower up by words alone. I ask her about how she and Betty discovered the place where her come could be clearly felt. She describes the two of them, in a chair like this (maybe this one), with Betty experimenting, searching for her G spot, which they’d both read about but had never experienced. With her fingers on the upper part of the vaginal wall, where the G spot is supposed to be, Betty was rubbing gently while licking Susie’s clit. The internal activity didn’t seem to have much effect, but the tongue work did, and when Susie came, Betty could feel the little contractions deep inside with her finger.

Telling this, in her slow, languid southern style, Susie keeps her legs open for me, only inches away. As she talks, losing herself in the memory, her vulva begins a deliberate but visible and exciting transformation. The sides part under the gentle swelling, and the reddish lips inflate outwards revealing lighter and deeper hues. Pink, red, tan and white, and at the center a set of folds that grows moist as I watch, feeling my own cock grow and harden, untouched.

That words and thoughts alone could do this is both amazing and exciting. Obvious and not uncommon, but still unique and exciting — like that starry nightly display that is both familiar enough to not be noticed, yet stunning and incredible when you understand what it really means.

“You want to try it?” she asks, anticipating my question.

My answer is to insert my tongue into that place where the moisture seems to be coming from, and then to work it all out and around until the whole landscape is painted with clear honey and saliva, gleaming in the candlelight. She just leans back, as I imitate Betty, inserting a finger, then two, and licking gently up above where they go inside her, finding that little nub already hardened.

I work gently but steadily, moving the fingers a little, but keeping the fingertips up against where the G spot is supposed to be. Everything is warm, slick, musky, sexy, beautiful. I hear sighs and little moans up above me. My free hand goes up to her belly and rubs it, but really it’s there to help hold down the inevitable heave that I know is coming.

I love this, I really, really do. It’s just as wonderful to give such pleasure as it is to receive it (as long as you’re sure your turn will come, of course). She climbs higher, higher. I recognize all the familiar symptoms, although predicting the actual moment of the explosion is difficult. I just keep up the steady rhythm, tongue on clit, over and over and over. Her legs tense, and I know it’s near. An intake of breath almost desperate signals the eruption, and her legs flex up to push her split into my face. I hold her as still as I can, and wait for the moment.

And I feel it, I feel it! Gently, like the flutter of butterfly wings, right under my fingertips: pulse…pulse-pulse-pulse-pulse-pulse. The same rhythm of my own spasms when I come! One long tightening, then a series of rapid little pulses. Incredible. No possible way to fake that, it’s too deep, to fast, too regular. The spasms stop after only eight or ten, and then her hips relax back down into the chair. I look up at her in wonder. I’ve never felt anything like that before. When she opens her eyes she asks if I felt it, and I reply in wonder that yes, yes, yes I did.

She lays me on the chair, and sucks my cock until I come in her mouth.

Before I can say it myself, she remarks impishly “I could feel you too.”

“Smartass,” I murmur.

* * *

After that, she says it’s time for bed. That means: it’s time for me to go. No matter that I drove an hour or more up here to be with her, and have to drive an hour home at 2 AM. Staying overnight is forbidden.

Foolishly, I ask why. I’ve often been tempted, but never so bold as to ask, fearing to upset something delicate.

She looks at me as one who has had some suspicion confirmed.

“I don’t really know how to say this, so I’ll just say it,” she says, after a considerable pause. (Mental note: when someone starts a statement like this, nothing good ever follows it, no matter how gentle their tone is.)

“What we do is fun, and I love it, but it’s just for fun, can you understand? Do you understand? It doesn’t mean anything else, it *can’t* mean anything else. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure,” I say, but I fear a slight tone betrays me. It’s hard to admit it to myself, but maybe I do want it to mean more.

“I just need to be clear on that, very clear. It’s important,” she continues. I agree. I surely don’t want whatever we have to stop, even if this is all it ever gets to be. But her look is stern, and I regret asking the question.

We part with a hug, and my thanks for the companionship, the wine, and the sex. I drive home, alone under the starry night.

(No matter how I deny it to myself, the mistake of asking about staying all night was fatal. I will call her again, we will talk, but she will dodge all my efforts to get together. From here on, I’ll never see Susie again, try as I might. I doggedly deny to myself it matters, I insist I only miss the sex. But it is pain: it hurts, it numbly and relentlessly hurts.

As I left Jeanne, as Paul and Tamara hurt each other, so Susie hurts me. We are all bouncing through our lives without a map and with very few clues, colliding with each other, feeling the sparks of pleasure, and of pain. We smile, we laugh, we cry, we are kings and queens, blunderers and fools. Our fears rule us even as our hopes pull us forward. Everyone looking for a safe shore on an endless sea, we struggle, and we learn.)

* * *

I lie under an October sky so blue it breaks your heart to look at it. The leaves are changing, and I hear their rustling in the breeze. It sounds like something familiar. It sounds like pages turning, turning in the wind.